The object which had called forth the last remark was still another figure, which came from the same quarter, and proceeded in the direction taken by the first two. "What queer business is now afoot?" Fawkes exclaimed, gazing after the retreating forms. "Mayhap ere long a trusty blade will not be amiss. I can well afford a few moments to see that all be fair."

So saying, and loosening his sword in its scabbard to make sure it was free if suddenly needed, he swiftly passed in the direction taken by the retreating figures. A few steps brought him to the head of the street down which the three had disappeared. By the light of the moon Fawkes distinctly saw the shadowy forms, and halting where he stood, watched their movements.

The girl was well in advance; the second person, hurrying after. The last of the two crossed to the opposite side of the way and walked well in the shadow cast by the gables of the houses. The girl cast a glance over her shoulder as if feeling the presence of one in pursuit, but evidently finding herself quite alone, slackened her pace to take breath. Now, the one nearest her made a strange move, if so be he were bent upon an honest mission; for as soon as the woman reduced her gait to a walk, the man loosened the long cloak hanging about his shoulders, and seizing it in both hands, moved swiftly and noiselessly in her direction. Aye, loose thy sword in its sheath, thou, standing in the shadow; for if there be in thee muscle for a fight, soon will the clash of steel ring out upon the frosty air.

The man was now up with the girl, who, on hearing footsteps, turned and uttered a scream. Once only does she raise the cry, for before she can a second time call out, the cloak is thrown over her head, a rough hand is at her throat, and she feels the pressure of a rope as it is deftly whipped about her. There was a momentary struggle; but it soon ceased, for the woman fainted, and was at the mercy of him who had trapped her. Is thy sword caught and useless? thy arm paralyzed? or what causes thee to stand unnerved and trembling? Was it the scream that rang out upon the midnight air? Had it the sound of a voice dear to thee even now?

The man lifted the light figure of the girl within his arms and hurried away. Aye, Effingston, heaven-sent was the sorrow which drove thee forth to seek solace from the night and stars; but, come, now is thy time!

Fear not for him—he has recovered himself—and, snatching his rapier from its sheath, with one or two quick bounds is up with the man, crying: "By the God above thee, release the woman ere I crush thy head, thou adder!"

The one thus addressed turned, and seeing the determined face at his elbow, paused, but retained his grasp upon the girl.

"Release her!" exclaimed Effingston, raising his sword, "ere I spit thee." The man allowed his burden to slip to the ground, the cloak fell from about her figure, and Elinor lay at the feet of him she loved.

"Thou art quick with thy command, Master," replied the other, coolly drawing his rapier. "Methinks thou hadst better attend to love affairs of thine own, rather than meddle in that with which thou hast no concern. Put up thy blade, I say, and go about thy business, ere I teach thee a trick or two which will let more ardor out of thy body than a three days' diet of beef can replace."

"Thou knave!" Effingston exclaimed, casting a quick glance at the motionless figure upon the ground, and pointing toward it with his rapier. "Dost call thyself a man, to steal behind and deal foul blows? Verily, thou craven dog, 'tis written in thy countenance, and he who runs may read, that thou hast not the courage even to look a woman in the eye, much less to face a man in honest fight."

"I'll hear no more of thy speech," cried the now angry man, leaping meanwhile to the middle of the road; "soon will I put holes in thy genteel carcass which will leave thy vitals cold for some time to come. Up with thy sword, if thy bravery be not all talk." He unfastened his leather jerkin and stood awaiting Effingston, who loosened the clasp of his mantle.

"By my troth," exclaimed Fawkes, who still retained his post of vantage; "I swear 'tis not my place to interfere; likely it will be a lusty fight, for both seem to have the proper spirit, and hold the weapon as those accustomed to the steel. Marry! it must be difficult to see the eyes in this light, but the point will be more readily kept track of."

The combatants crossed swords and stood at guard.

"If thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name," said the man in the leather jerkin, as Effingston's blade touched his lightly, emitting a grating sound.

The only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried.

Not three blows were exchanged before Effingston realized that the man before him not only possessed the skill of one long used to sword play, but, further, combined with it the coolness and the keen eye of an old duelist. Moreover, the neutral tint of his adversary's dress offered but a poor mark by which to gauge his thrust, while his own costume, being ornamented with silver, gave his antagonist most effective guidance whereby to aim his strokes.

The other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood before him, for Effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it.

"Enough of this child's play," Effingston's antagonist hissed between his teeth, making another furious lunge. The impetus given to the thrust would have sent the blade to the hilt into the other's body had it come in contact with it, but Effingston met the blow in a way least expected, making use of a trick but little known in England at that time, for as quickly as the sword flew forward he stepped lightly aside, at the same time advancing his own weapon. The hilts came together with a crash; the guard of one was entangled in the bell of the other, and the two rapiers remained firmly interlocked. The men now stood so closely that their breasts touched, the breath issuing from their parted lips mingling in clouds. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, as if one read the intent in the other's eye, each slowly moved his left arm to his side, seeking the dagger he knew hung there. Again, on the same instant, the knives flashed forth; the men sprang quickly apart; the two rapiers went spinning on the roadway, and with a clatter, became disentangled as they fell. No time for breath; each knows it is to the death, and plenty of rest awaits one or both, perchance, in a few moments. The men leaped toward each other; a confused struggle ensued. Fawkes from his post could illy make out who had the advantage. Suddenly, Effingston's foot slipped, he was almost upon his knees—the man was upon him, one hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost him his life, for before the hand could descend, Effingston quickly raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement. The man clutched at the figure before him, the blade flew from his grasp and he dropped with a bubbling cry to the earth, the blood spurting from him as he fell.

"Marry!" exclaimed Fawkes, who through all the contest had been craning his neck and breathing hard with excitement, "that was a brave device but not one which I should care to try myself. By the Apostle Paul!" added he in surprise on hearing the bell of a distant church strike the hour, "it is three o'clock, and here am I watching two gentlemen, whose faces I cannot even see, settle a little difficulty about a woman. But 'twas a lusty fight, and for the moment made me forget the errand which called me forth." Saying which and with another glance down the road, he started upon his way.

The victor stood regarding his foe, who made one or two convulsive movements as if to arise, but fell back with the blood spouting from the wound and out his mouth. One more struggling effort he makes, but 'tis the last; with a violent convulsion of his whole body the man in the leather jerkin sinks to the earth to rise no more.

Effingston turned to the second figure lying upon the roadway, and as he gazed upon her, there was expressed on his countenance a certain degree of contempt, but, withal, a love which pride and resolution could not quite kill. As she lies there, the white face touched by the light of the moon, it is like looking upon the dead.

"O God," he whispered, as he suddenly knelt beside her, taking one of the white hands within his own, "would that she had died before—before——" He slowly raised the girl in his arms; then convulsively pressed the light figure to him, and letting his head sink upon her breast, sobbed as only a strong man can.

Again there was silence, broken only by the rattle of ice-covered twigs swept from the trees by the restless night wind. After a moment he regained composure and fell to chafing her hands.

A slight motion showed him the girl was slowly recovering from her long swoon. Gradually consciousness returned, and lifting her head from the cloak he had placed beneath it, she looked about in a confused way as though unable to make out her surroundings. Soon her gaze rested upon Effingston, who had drawn a little apart. Raising herself, she tottered toward him, and would have fallen had he not put an arm out to prevent her.

"What could have made thee treat me so?" she whispered, passing a hand across her face, as if endeavoring to brush away that which hindered her thoughts. "Have I not suffered enough?" she continued, piteously.

"I was not thy assailant," answered Effingston, motioning to the figure on the road; "there he lieth; thou canst go thy way in peace."

The girl glanced in the direction and shuddered. "And how came this about?" she questioned, in a dreamy tone, casting a frightened look at the thing in the path. "Oh, now I do recollect me," added she, softly, as though to herself, seemingly oblivious of her surroundings. "I had left Sir Winter, and deeming myself quite safe, was hurrying home, when—for truth, I can remember no more until I found thee near me." She ceased and looked up into his face with an innocent smile. Evidently the terrible strain to which her mind had been subjected effaced from it all previous impressions, or left only an indistinct recollection of what had transpired. "It was brave of thee," she murmured, in the same dreamy tone, placing her hand upon his arm.

At the name of Winter, Effingston drew back. Had she not by those unguarded words confirmed her guilt? All his pride and anger returned. The resolutions which had but a moment since departed, banished by that helpless figure in the moonlight, now came again with greater strength. Of what weakness, he asked himself, had he been guilty? Of kissing the lips not yet cold from the caresses of him who had defiled them.

"Very—brave—in—thee," the girl repeated, in a dull monotone.

Effingston glanced at her, but that piteously bewildered face cannot move him, and he coldly answered:

"'Tis the duty of every gentleman to protect the life of a woman, even though her shame be public talk."

Evidently the girl had not heard, or at least the words made no impression upon her brain, for she nestled closely to him like a frightened child seeking protection.

"Come," he whispered. She obeyed without a word. They passed upon their way in silence and at last reached her dwelling. Effingston opened the door which stood unbarred, and assisted her to enter. He turned to go, not trusting himself to speak.

"Thou wert not always accustomed to leave me thus," exclaimed the girl, in a voice destitute of expression. "See," she continued, "I will kiss thee even without thy asking," and before the man realized her intent, she threw her arms about him and pressed her lips to his. "They are cold," she murmured, with a shiver. "But the night is chilly—look! now the east is streaked with red." Turning, she pointed to the sky, dyed with the crimson light of coming day. The ruddy glow crept up, touching the girl and turning the snow at her feet to the color of the rose.

"Come to me, dear heart," she whispered, holding out her arms; "take me to thee, that on thy breast I may find a sweet and dreamless sleep."

The sun arose; but upon no sadder sight than this man, who plodded wearily homeward—warring forces within, and a desert all about. On his way through the silent streets, made more desolate by the cheerless light of coming day, he saw for a moment a mirage of an honorable love and happiness. In the fair city of his dream he beheld a bright and happy home, made so and adorned by the girl whose kiss was still upon his lips. There, always awaited him a heart which, through its love, added to each blessing, and dulled every sorrow. Ever on the portal stood a being he worshiped, who, with her fair arms wreathed a welcome of love about him. They pass within; a bright face offers itself for a kiss; fondly he stoops, but the dream vanishes;—in the breaking of the morn he stands alone;—hope dead within his breast.



CHAPTER XIII.

AT "THE SIGN OF THE LEOPARD."

Winter waited long for his servant's return. He walked restlessly up and down the chamber, ever and anon pausing, either for recourse to the flagon on the table, or to draw aside the curtains and gaze out upon the street. At last, sinking into a chair with a muttered curse at the long delay, he fell into deep sleep, overcome by the wine in which he had so freely indulged. Dawn broke gray and cheerless. The first rays of the sun penetrated into the chamber and fell upon the sleeper,—his position was unchanged since the small hours of the night. Gradually, as the light increased, he stirred uneasily, awoke, and rubbing his eyes, looked about as though not sure of the surroundings. His eye rested upon the flagon, then slowly traveled toward the window. The recollection of the last night, however, flashed before him, and springing from the chair, he dashed out into the corridor.

"Richard!" he called. No answer followed his summons.

"Richard," he repeated, in a still louder tone. The only response was the echo of his own voice.

"What mad business be this?" exclaimed he, retracing his steps and looking wildly about the apartment. "By this cursed drink have I brought ruin to our hopes and cause. Out upon thee," he cried in a transport of passion, suddenly seizing the flagon, and flinging it with all his might across the room. The heavy piece of metal struck the wall, sending out a deluge of wine, and falling with a crash, shattered into fragments an ivory crucifix resting upon a small table. Winter stood aghast at the havoc wrought.

"An omen," he whispered, white to the lips, glancing about with frightened looks, then kneeling to take up the broken cross.

"See," he cried, holding with trembling fingers the image of the crucified Savior which had escaped the wreck, and now dripped with wine;—"Christ's wounds do open their red mouths and bleed afresh at my awful deeds." The man arose, crossed himself, and thrust the image into his doublet, then wiping the sweat from his brow sank into a chair.

"'Tis not by these tremblings, or vain regrets, that I may fortify myself, or mend what's done," he exclaimed. "I must bethink me, and let reason check the consequences of my folly. The girl asseverated that she heard all which transpired at her house last night. Oh, most unfortunate chance which gave the words into her ear! What foul fiend did raise the cup to my lips and leave my wit too weak to turn the deadly stroke? Nay," he continued, after several moments, shaking his head, "she'll not make known the purport of our speech, for the love she bears her father is a potent hostage for her silence, and if I be judge, Mistress Elinor will make scant mention of her visit yesternight. Even if there be small love in her heart for me, a most wholesome fear doth take its place, and for my present purpose one will serve as fittingly as the other. Marry," he continued, with a smile, seemingly relieved by his reflections, "thy ready wit hath at last returned; but by St. Paul! what hath become of that varlet Richard? 'Tis more than likely the open door of some pot house spoke more strongly to him than my command, and 'tis most providential if my surmise be true; I must have been mad indeed to trust the rogue on such a mission. Small doubt but that he heard all which transpired here last night, for he hath a most willing ear to listen, and a tongue given to wag. 'Twould be a heaven-sent deed if something would occur to silence his speech, for his knowledge, if he hath the wit to know its value, may be a deadly menace to our cause. When he returns I'll give the knave silver to quit the country; or, perchance," he added, a hard, cunning look coming into his eyes as he put his hand upon a small dagger at his side, "if that will not suffice, 'twill be necessary for our safety to introduce him to more sturdy metal."

The man arose and proceeded to efface the marks of dissipation, and set his disordered dress to rights, saying as he finished, "I must to my appointment with Garnet. Marry," he added, donning hat and mantle, "I hope he is safely housed, and that my letter to Giles Martin, which the worthy prelate was to present, did insure him some extra attention, as a pot house, at its best, must be a poor refuge for a priest."

It was early in the morning and few people were astir.

"Gramercy," quoth Winter, when he had proceeded some distance on his way, "would that some person were abroad that I might enquire the direction to 'The Sign of the Leopard;' I swear," he added, glancing about, "it must be in this neighborhood, but I can illy guess where." Looking, he perceived a group of men a little distance down the street. "There be some worthies," exclaimed he, "who can perhaps direct me to the hostelry." As he approached he saw they were regarding a figure lying upon the ground.

"Nay, Master Alyn," said one, "thou hadst best do naught but let it await removal by the King's guard; if thou disturb the body surely questions might be asked which 'twould bother thy head to answer."

"Beshrew my heart," exclaimed the man addressed, who, judging from his appearance, was a small tradesman, "I can ill afford to have this evil thing lying upon my step, preventing what little trade might drift this way."

Winter now came up with the group, and as they turned at the sound of his footsteps, he could see that the object of their remarks was a man lying face downward on the flagging, and his attitude of relaxation showed that death had overtaken him.

"What hast thou here, my men?" Sir Thomas exclaimed, "some victim of a drunken brawl?"

"That we cannot make out," answered the first speaker, touching his hat, on perceiving—by his dress and manner—that the questioner was a gentleman, possibly one in authority, "but for truth, he has been stuck as pretty as a boar at Yule-tide. Thou mayst look for thyself," he added, with some little pride, as of a showman exhibiting his stock, and laying hold of the body by the shoulders he turned it over, so that the distorted face gazed up at the sky.

Winter started at the sight, unable to repress a cry, for before him was the body of his servant. His wish had indeed been fulfilled; those silent lips would tell no tales.

"What, good sir!" cried he who seemed to be the spokesman of the party, on noting the white face of the other; "doth thy stomach turn so readily?"

"Nay," replied Winter, raising a gauntlet to hide his emotion, "but they who meet death suddenly are seldom sweet to look upon, and—and—for truth, I have not yet broke my fast; canst direct me to a certain hostelry in this neighborhood known as 'The Sign of the Leopard?'"

"I can, Master, for many a pot of ale I've drank in that same place. Look," he continued, pointing, "if thou wilt follow this street until the second turning to the right, from there thou canst readily see the tavern's sign."

"My thanks to thee," said Winter, taking a coin from his purse and handing it to the man. His eyes again for a moment turned upon the prostrate figure. "And my friends," added he, "I would deem it expedient that ye notify the guards, and have this unsightly thing removed." He then turned and proceeded in the direction given him. This incident brought a renewal of the apprehensions which had haunted him earlier in the morning, and he muttered as he went on his way: "There is the first consequence of my folly, and the next may be—nay, courage; heaven will not be so merciless as to permit one evil deed to overthrow our cause. God will pardon this hasty sin, when he who committed it doth risk life in His holy work. But," he added, with a smile, "'tis providential justice which slew the man, for the dead utter no words." At last he arrived before the house which he sought. "Marry," he exclaimed, gazing at the exterior of the tavern; "'tis indeed a sorry place for the saintly Garnet to reside in, but it has the advantage of being a secure retreat." He tried the door, which yielded to his touch, and entered the apartment. On the tables stood the remains of last night's libations, and the air hung heavy with the odor of stale tobacco smoke. Over all was a spell of silent desolation, as if the ghosts of the songs and merry jests, which had echoed from the walls, had returned with aching heads to curse the room.

"This is a sweet place, truly," said Winter, looking upon the table. After a short delay the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching, a door opened and the host entered. Giles Martin, not at once recognizing the man who stood by the table, regarded his guest with some little surprise, for a customer at that early hour was rare.

"To what may I serve thee, sir?" said he, advancing toward Winter. "Well, Master Martin," exclaimed the one addressed, "dost so soon forget a face? It is, I swear, a poor trick for a landlord."

"What, Sir Thomas?" cried the other in surprise, holding out his hand, "I did not recognize thee in this uncertain light. A thousand pardons, and highly am I honored to find thee in my humble house."

"'Tis but small honor I do thee," replied the man, with a laugh, drawing off his gauntlets. "Didst receive my letter?"

"Aye, that I did, and have shown the bearer of it every courtesy which this poor tavern can provide. Much am I gratified to learn that Sir Thomas Winter remembered one whom he hath not seen since——"

"Nay, good Martin, I do recall the time thou wouldst name. But pray tell me, is my cavalier friend up at this early hour, for I would confer with him."

Giles cast a quick glance at the speaker, then letting his eyes fall, said:

"That he is, and little hath he slept this night, for 'twas late ere he arrived, and when I arose I heard him walking about."

"Then wilt thou tell him I await; or—nay, stop—thou needst not announce me; I will see him in his chamber. Show the way, I will follow."

"As thou dost wish," said Giles, turning to open a door which hid a flight of rickety stairs leading to the floor above. Reaching the landing Winter noted that Martin was about to follow and exclaimed:

"Nay, show me the portal, I will not trouble thee further. And if thou wilt be so kind, see to it that we are not disturbed in our conversation."

"Have no fear for that, Sir Thomas, I will take care that none do interrupt. The room is in front of thee," saying which, Martin turned and descended the stairs.

Winter tapped upon the panel.

"Enter," said a quiet voice.

He lifted the latch and passed into the room. The prelate had evidently been engaged in prayer, for, as the other stepped within, the priest was arising from his knees. His face seemed in strange contrast to the garb he had donned; the delicate, almost effeminate features of the man were little in keeping with the gay attire of a cavalier.

"Ah, Sir Thomas," exclaimed the Jesuit, advancing with gentle dignity and extended hand, "glad am I to see thee, for I have been more than lonely, but," he added, with a bright smile, "'tis not my nature to complain; these be but small discomforts, and gladly would I endure greater in the service of my Master. Hast any news? Hath aught happened since we met? But pray be seated," he added, pointing to one of the two chairs, which, with a low bed, comprised the furniture of the room.

"Nay, good father, nothing hath transpired," replied the other, a shade passing athwart his face; "and now tell me, what dost thou think of Fawkes? Is his enthusiasm great enough to serve our purpose?"

"A most terrible man, but one whose cruelty rests upon the love of God. Indeed, it is as thou didst say, if each Catholic in England were possessed of but one-half his zeal, then would the gutters run red with the blood of heretics; 'twas such as he who made the eve of St. Bartholomew. Are we free to speak?" queried Garnet, leaning toward the other.

"Quite free," replied Winter, "a faithful friend of mine is on guard that we be not interrupted."

"Then, 'tis well; I have spent the night in prayer, beseeching the Almighty to lead my mind aright that I may decide the justice of the plan proposed. Ah," exclaimed the Jesuit, arising, and with hands clenched before him, "'tis a hideous act, but," an expression of fierceness coming into his gentle face, "my supplication was answered, the deed is favored by God, for He hath sent me a token of His approval."

"A token, thou sayest, good father?" exclaimed Winter in an awed voice.

"Verily," cried Garnet, raising his eyes to heaven, "a sign from Him whose cause we serve. 'Twas thus: Long had I knelt in prayer, long had I raised my voice that He who holds the oceans in His palm, and guides the planets in their courses, would lead me to a wise decision. 'O God,' I cried, 'send thou some token that I may know thy will.' Even as I gazed upon the crucifix clenched in my unlifted hand, the message I so craved had come, for the cross was stained with blood, which from it fell in sluggish drops. I looked more intently, filled with amazement, and perceived that so closely had I pressed the silver image of the blessed Savior it had cut into the flesh. But 'twas God's voice in answer to my prayer."

"Most marvelous," whispered Winter, crossing himself. "But didst thou comprehend all that Fawkes proposed? Hast dwelt on every point?"

"Think not, my son," the prelate answered, "that because my eyes have long been used to the dim light of the sanctuary, they have not perceived all the horror of that which must be done. But now," he cried, his pale face flushed with emotion, "God in His wisdom hath for a time taken from me the crucifix and given in its place the sword. So be it," he continued, drawing the rapier hanging by his side and kissing the cross formed by the blade and handle, "He shall not find Henry Garnet wanting, for not until the Angelus doth sound from Landsend to Dunnet Head, will this hand of mine relax its hold, unless death doth strike the weapon from it."

"Ah, good father," cried Winter in admiration of the other's spirit, "thy enthusiasm and courage are surely heaven born, but," he whispered, "if we fail, what then?"

"We cannot," broke in the Jesuit, his eyes alight with the fervor of his spirit. "Have I not told thee that heaven approves our act? Victory belongs to us; the White Dove doth rest upon our helms. 'Tis true that some of us may perish, but what of them? Their fame shall live from age to age, and never will the call to Mass or Vespers sound, never will the clouds of incense mount upward—streaming past the Host without their names being within the hearts and on the tongues of the worshipers. Think how greatly we be blessed," he continued, laying his hand fondly upon the other's shoulder;—"a few, a happy few, who have been thus elected to raise the cross of Christ from out the dust. Nay," he added, shaking his head, "I would not wish our danger one jot or tittle less, for, methinks, some portion of the glory which is now our own might depart with it, and I could illy bear the loss of even one small gem which must rest in the immortal crown of our recompense."

"Then thou dost feel our victory is assured," said Winter, in a constrained voice, looking anxiously toward Garnet.

"Nay, I do not feel—I am certain," replied the prelate, decisively. "And now there rests with us the duty of forming our plans, making everything ready to strike the mighty blow. What hast thou to offer or suggest?"

"Good father, I would not take upon myself to offer a suggestion," said Winter; "but methinks it would be well that we all assemble and discuss the matter more fully."

"And where shall the gathering be held?—at the house of Master Fawkes?"

"Not so," replied the other, so abruptly that the priest turned upon him an enquiring glance. "I mean," continued Winter, noting the look, "'twould be unwise for us to be seen again meeting in that place; it might arouse curiosity, and that might be fatal."

"Then what wouldst thou say to my Lord Catesby's?"

"Nay, for I deem the same objection doth apply to his dwelling. I would suggest we gather at the house of Sir Everard Digby. Will't suit thee, father?"

"I think thy caution most commendable, and thy proposition the best. And when shall the meeting be?"

"Say a week hence," replied Winter. "In the meantime I will see Sir Everard, and make the necessary arrangements. But what of thee till then?"

"Disturb not thyself, my son, concerning me," replied the prelate; "I will content myself, and be right comfortable in the care of thy friend the host. Dost think he hath suspicions?"

"Nay," replied the other. "In truth, if his suspicions were aroused, he would be silent; such poor taste hath he, that love for me would make him dumb, and with it is the fact that the man is a zealous Catholic; methinks if his help could be safely won he would be most valuable to us. Shouldst thou find a fitting opportunity it might be well to sound the man."

"I will do so," replied the prelate, "if a chance doth offer itself."

"And now," continued Winter, rising, "I must away. Be ever careful, father, for thy loss would signify the destruction of our hopes."

"My son," answered the other, with a smile, "thou dost speak from thy heart; but methinks, if at this moment Henry Garnet were dragged away and hurried toward the block, the mighty work would be continued; success doth rest in higher hands than mine. Now, until we meet again, may the peace of Him whose servants we are rest upon thee."



CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS.

Some leagues from London, in the shire of Buckingham, was situated the country residence of Sir Everard Digsby, who, with Catesby, Wright and Percy, was present at the house of the latter on the night in which Fawkes reached the city, whither he had been summoned by a letter from Sir Thomas Winter. The dwelling of the young nobleman, being somewhat remote from the more populous districts of the shire, seemed a fitting place for such discussion, and, perchance, of more weighty matters, pertaining to the fast-growing conspiracy against the King and his Parliament. This place Winter had suggested to Garnet as the safest spot for the Catholic gentlemen to assemble for the discussion of their plan.

'Twas the custom that those noblemen whose wealth afforded them two dwellings, one in London and another in the rural districts, should oft entertain at the latter such of their companions as pleased them; and these, riding forth from the city, singly or in goodly numbers, might pass but a single night, but sometimes when occasion served, a fortnight, in merrymaking at their host's expense. Such being a common practice throughout the kingdom little danger of causing suspicion lay in the fact that Winter, Rookwood, Catesby, Wright and such others as had been admitted to their council, departed from London in company. Garnet, indeed, had ridden on before them, attended by Sir Digsby and Fawkes, nor had any noted their departure; or, if perchance they did, were not disposed to comment upon it.

A staunch Catholic and a zealous follower of the Jesuits, Everard Digsby had lent himself willingly to the cause of his brother churchmen, having long ago satisfied himself that their actions were justified. In fact, his present convictions were to some extent the outcome of early teachings, for even at a tender age his mind had been under Catholic influence, and therefore it was not strange that on reaching manhood he should be a strong adherent of Romish doctrine. And still further, his attitude was less to be wondered at, when considered that the seeds of these same convictions were planted by no other hand than the friend, tutor and spiritual adviser of his youth—Henry Garnet. In truth, he had surpassed the zeal of many associates, for being denied the full privilege of such worship as his faith taught him, he had caused to be erected within the walls of his country residence a small chapel, fitted up under supervision of the Superior of the English Jesuits.

Somewhat early in the evening the little cavalcade rode into Buckinghamshire, and having reached their destination, were received with much cordiality by the young nobleman and his more austere companions. The ride from London, on account of the inclemency of the weather, had been most disagreeable, and the travelers were nothing loth to stretch their chilled limbs before the great fire prepared in readiness for their arrival, and to partake heartily of the well ordered refreshments which their host had caused to be in waiting. Having satisfied the carnal man, they were the more willing to turn to the spiritual repast which had drawn them together; for in each mind the conviction was strong that in plotting against the King they were but serving the ends of God.

"Good gentlemen," said Garnet, the company having drawn about the fire in a room somewhat remote from the more inhabited part of the dwelling, "having partaken so freely of worthy Everard's hospitality, it is most fitting that we turn for a season to that which has summoned us from London. Methinks there be none absent?"

Catesby ran his eyes over the group about him, checking each off on his fingers. "Winter, my Lord of Rookwood, good Percy, Wright, Francis Tresham and Master Guido," said he, "these with Your Reverence, Sir Everard and myself, make up the number—nine."

"'Tis well," exclaimed Garnet, fixing his eyes for an instant on the face of each. "Certain things have arisen which render it most expedient that we make common cause with each other—what think ye?"

"That the time is ripe for the maturing of such plans as best are suited to our purpose," replied Rookwood; "James hath again declared against us."

"'Tis even so," broke in Percy, "and at the house of Master Fawkes when thou wert absent, there arose some discussion as to certain ways and methods best fitted to——"

"Ah!" cried Winter, looking toward the corner where was seated the soldier of fortune, with his chin upon his hand; "the opportunity has not served since our last meeting to inquire concerning thy good mother and thy daughter, friend Guido. Tell me, I pray, did the gathering of so many armed men in thy chamber disturb their slumbers?"

"Nay," replied Fawkes, gruffly; "the dame knew nothing of it; neither my daughter, of that——"

"And the lass," continued Winter, eyeing the man closely, "is she well and cheerful as becomes her youth and loveliness?"

"As to cheerfulness," answered the other, a shade of sadness coming into his face, "methinks the merry smile hath forever forsaken her lips, for now she looketh so pale and wan it doth seem but the shadow of her former self wandering about the house; but thank God, the worst is over, and she is on the road to recovery."

"And hath Mistress Elinor been ill?" inquired Winter, turning a surprised look toward the speaker.

"I had deemed," answered Fawkes, "that my absence from thy house for nigh on to a week would indicate to thee that something was amiss. I every day expected to——"

"For truth," broke in the other in a relieved tone, "had I known that thy daughter lay ill I would for a surety have called. But, pray, tell me; is she better now?"

"As I have said, she is better; but not herself as yet. In fact, it was on the night of the meeting at my dwelling, after ye had all departed, that I went for a breath of air upon the street and—and—well, it was when I returned that I found the girl in a high fever, and looking much as though she had beheld a foe. The fever spent itself in three days; now, 'tis but the after weakness which afflicts her."

"Thank God for her recovery!" exclaimed Winter, as he eyed Fawkes narrowly; but finding nothing in his countenance to arouse alarm, sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief.

"And now," said Garnet, who had listened with attention to the dialogue, "since thy last words have banished from my mind the anxiety called forth by the recital of thy fair daughter's illness, we may again turn our thoughts toward other matters, and listen to good Catesby here."

"As thou knowest," began Catesby, "it hath ever been my desire to act quickly. Therefore I would suggest that no time be lost in carrying out such designs as will rid the kingdom of our enemies."

"Well spoken," cried Digsby; "to that we are agreed."

Garnet smiled sadly. "Would that all England cried amen!" said he, solemnly. Then turning suddenly to Fawkes, "and thou, Master Guido, what sayest thou?"

The soldier of fortune looked up quickly. "I am ever ready," said he, "whether we deal with all those in authority, or with the King alone."

"Then?" cried Winter, "then?——"

Garnet cast down his eyes, the soul of the priest struggling with dark apprehensions which arose within him. "If there were any shadow of sin in it," he murmured, "I would not countenance the bringing of it to an issue. No other reason hath drawn me into it save ardent and active interest in the cause of God." Then facing his companions he continued: "'Tis the will of Christ that in the hands of His weakest subjects shall be placed the sword of vengeance which shall sweep these infidels from the land. Good Catesby hath oft pondered in his mind, with some impatience, the meaning of my check upon his zeal. 'Twas that I might seek through prayer a way to our deliverance. That the time is near a revelation hath been vouchsafed to me from heaven."

A murmur ran through the little company. The priest's voice changed from tones of solemnity to those of one who spake with authority; and stretching forth the hand, he said: "We are of one mind. Perchance Master Fawkes hath opened a way whereby shall be destroyed both the King and his Parliament. What can effect our purpose quicker than the flash of gunpowder? God hath placed it in our hand for us to use, and do His will. Yet other things remain; the door being opened, will those who watch us from abroad unite with us in restoring to this unhappy England its altars and its sacrifices? Sir Thomas Winter, thou hast been in France and Spain to do man's bidding; wouldst go thither in obedience to the will of God?"

Winter started, for the meaning of the other's words implied much. "Is it a mission?" he asked, fixing his gaze upon the Jesuit.

"Aye!" replied Garnet; "a mission of much danger, and one which will need all secrecy. At the Court of France dwell certain members of my Order, close to the King, and deep in affairs of State. Before them I will lay our undertaking, that when England shall be without a government and all the land involved in perplexity and beset with controversies, the armies of the Catholic Kings may come among us—the way being prepared for their entrance."

A murmur of approval burst from Catesby, Rookwood and Percy. "And if Sir Winter hesitates," cried the former, "I will——"

"Say no more," interrupted Winter; "this day week will see me at the Court of France."

"And thou, friend Guido," said Garnet, blandly, "thou art of ready wit, and a good sword may be needful. Shall brave Winter go alone?"

Fawkes knitted his brows—"I little thought to again leave England so soon," he replied, gruffly; "yet ere another sunset will I be ready if thus I may serve the cause."

A look of kindliness came into the Jesuit's eyes; the blind zeal of the man, a zeal that thrust all other thoughts aside, touched him, and with quick perception he saw in the rough cavalier one who, did all others fail, would with his single hand hurl the thunderbolt. Taking from his bosom a small silver crucifix, he laid it in Fawkes' hand. "Give this," said he, quietly, "unto thy daughter; 'twill guard her during thine absence. Aye! and dost thou fear to leave her? I swear to thee, I will see to it that she lacketh nothing."

Fawkes turned upon him a look of deep devotion. Bred in superstition, the fact that the priest understood that which troubled him—fear for the safety of his daughter—seemed a sign from heaven. He kissed the crucifix reverently, and put it in his bosom between the hard steel of his cuirass and his heart.

Garnet turned to the group. "One thing remains," said he solemnly; "'tis the oath which, registered before heaven, shall hold each to his purpose. Sir Digsby, let us to thy chapel, that beneath the shadow of the cross we may seek that blessing without which all our deeds are sinful, and our purposes as sand."

Solemnly the little company, headed by the priest and Sir Everard, wended their way toward the chapel. No words were exchanged between them, for all were deep in thought. As they passed into the chamber set aside for worship, each reverently knelt and crossed himself, then took up a position in front of the altar. As it was late and the brief winter twilight faded from the sky, the chapel lay shrouded in deep gloom, relieved only by the red light burning in a hanging lamp suspended before the tabernacle, holding the consecrated elements. To the men there was something fearfully solemn in their surroundings. Before them stood that altar for the preservation of which they were about to pledge their lives.

As their eyes became more accustomed to the subdued light, they beheld shadow-like forms slowly appear upon the walls, and while intently gazing, these apparitions gradually materialized and assumed definite shape, resolving themselves into paintings portraying the last scenes in the life of Christ. Penetrating everything was the clinging odor of incense, which, in some subtle way, brings to mind the awful majesty of God.

Presently Garnet emerged from the sacristy, bearing in his hand a flaming taper with which he lighted the candles on the altar. The Jesuit had placed over the costume which he wore a cope of deep red, richly embroidered with gold, and evidently the priest had not even laid aside his rapier, for its dull clank could be heard as he walked about. The rattle of the steel broke discordantly upon the deep silence, but was it not symbolic? A deed of violence was about to be committed, cloaked in the garb of religion!

Finishing his task, he knelt before the altar in silent prayer. Then arising, he passed to the gate of the rood screen, where his commanding figure was thrown into bold relief by the altar lights. Presently seating himself, he said in low and solemn tones to the men kneeling in the darkness: "Consider well, my brethren, the step ye are about to take; for he who turns back will be likened unto the woman who glanced over her shoulder at a city burning;—to pillars of craven cowardice would ye be changed—monuments to mark how men, even when their duty shone clear as though emblazoned on the azure vault of heaven, lacked heart to carry it out. Consider it well, then, all of you!"

The deep voice of the priest rose as he uttered the last words, and its resonant tone returned in echoes from the vaulted ceiling as if each statued saint from out his niche cried: "Consider it well."

"Are ye all prepared?" he asked. A deep "All prepared" answered his question.

"'Tis well. Now shall I register your vows before the unveiled Host and upon the crucifix, that in the very presence of the Son of God ye may swear to perform them unto the end. To thee, my son," continued the Superior, addressing Catesby, "will I first administer the oath, for 'twas thy hand which was foremost to lift itself in the holy cause."

The man arose and knelt before the Jesuit. "Dost swear," said the priest, holding a crucifix before the other's eyes, "that as thou dost hope for salvation through the blood of Christ, so thou wilt yield thy blood if need be in this holy work; setting aside all else until a Catholic doth occupy the throne of England?"

"I swear it, father," answered Catesby, reverently pressing his lips to the cross.

To every one of the eight did the Superior give the oath, and then took the same himself.

"And now," said Garnet, when the men had once more resumed their places, "do we proceed to administer to each the sacrament which alone can fill your minds and bodies with sufficient strength to carry out our holy purpose."

The priest arose and turned toward the altar, bowed, then slowly ascended the steps. After unlocking the door of the tabernacle with a golden key, he drew forth from the recess the Monstrance containing the eucharist. Again he bowed, then elevated the Host, while the stillness was only broken by the deep tone of the sacring-bell, the men bending in adoration. Once more the priest made reverence; then arising, took from out the Monstrance the pyx, and facing the group, repeated the words: "Ecce Agnus Dei." All arose and knelt before him on the steps, receiving from his hands the sacrament, and when they had partaken, each silently returned to his place. A sense of the solemnity of their undertaking, accentuated by the awfulness of the act in which they were engaged, filled the men's hearts so that they scarcely beheld the Jesuit ascend to the altar and replace the Host within the tabernacle, or heard the benediction he pronounced....

Once more the men stood in the room they occupied previous to their entrance into the chapel. All seemed loath to speak, being deeply impressed by the ceremony in which they had taken part.

At last Fawkes made ready for departure, being desirous of reaching London ere daybreak. As he approached the door of the room the Superior arose and passed toward him. "Friend Guido," said Garnet, as the other stood ready for the journey, "I will not see thee ere thou and Sir Winter return from France. Let thy mind be at ease regarding thy daughter, for in thy absence I will have her under my special care. Hadst better mention to her that she will have a visitor?"

"I will be guided by thee in the matter, good father," returned Fawkes; "but," he continued, in a husky tone, "guard her well, for she is very dear to me."

"Have no fear," Garnet answered, kindly, laying a hand upon the other's shoulder; "in that will I be as zealous as though she were a daughter of mine own."



CHAPTER XV.

"THOU SHALT NOT KILL."

The deduction made by Winter concerning the silence of Elinor had been correct; but the power he had deemed potent to restrain her from uttering what she had overheard, and from giving voice to the indignities he in his drunkenness had heaped upon her, was not alone the reason of her silence; the mind was held in a species of lethargy. Now her father had left England; the motive which prompted his departure she could surmise,—his mission was an enigma. And who was his companion? The man whose face was ever before her, whose touch haunted her in dreams causing her to awake and cry in terror to the Virgin for protection. The girl was wrought up to a state of hysterical expectancy. Even when sitting within doors, an exclamation upon the street would cause her to start, fearing it might be a voice proclaiming the fulfillment of the awful threat which ever sounded in her ears. Never did she go abroad and behold a group of men but she approached with trembling limbs and nervous eagerness, feeling that the first words falling from their lips would be that England was without a king. What the effect of this anxiety might have been had she brooded over it long in solitude, is not difficult to tell. But solace arose from an unexpected quarter. On his departure for France, Fawkes had mentioned that there was in the city a certain friend, his companion several years before, whom he had again lately met and asked to call from time to time to inquire if he might render any service. The girl awaited the arrival of this visitor with trepidation and some anxiety, being well aware that the companions of her father were, as a rule, men of little refinement, accustomed to the rough life of a camp, and more at their ease in a pot-house than in the society of a young woman. Her expectations were pleasantly disappointed, for on his first visit the stranger, by his ease and grace of manner, banished from her mind all doubts concerning him. Although habited in the garb of a soldier of the period, there was about him something—a peculiar refinement of speech, a dignity of carriage, a certain reverent homage which he rendered unto her—that won from the girl a feeling of respect and confidence. His visits, far from being cause for apprehension, had become the one bright spot in her daily life; in his company Elinor for a brief time forgot the terrible anxiety to which she was a prey.

The only circumstance which impressed her as strange was that "Captain Avenel"—for by this name he had introduced himself—seldom visited the house by day, and there was always a certain amount of implied rather than actual caution in his movements, which seemed to the girl odd, as nothing else in his manner could be deemed in the least mysterious.

On one of those evenings, which Elinor now looked forward to with some pleasure, she and "Captain Avenel" sat together in a little room of Fawkes' dwelling.

"And didst say thou hadst intelligence of my father?" inquired she, eagerly.

"This very morning," answered the man, "did I receive a letter brought by packet from Calais, and in the note he wished me to make known his safe arrival; further, that he would by the next mail write thee, telling all about his travels. Now thou canst set thy mind at rest concerning him, for France in our time offers but few dangers, though in truth I think thy sire hath the look of one to whom peril would be a diversion."

"England doth offer more dangers than France," answered the girl, who was now abstractedly gazing into the fire.

Garnet turned a swift glance in her direction. The words awakened in the priest that feeling of apprehension which had ever been present in his mind since his arrival in London, but until now it had not been called forth by word or deed of hers. On the contrary, in her society the Jesuit felt for some reason, probably the innocence and loveliness of the girl, a sensation of rest and security that enabled him to throw off the dread of detection which so constantly possessed him. But he turned and inquired in a quiet tone:

"And dost deem England such a dangerous country?"

"Nay," replied Elinor, hesitatingly, "England doth seem all peace and quietude, but——" here she stopped, fearing the man might read what lay hidden in her heart, for he was regarding her with a look of surprise as he noted her embarrassment.

"Come, my daughter," said he kindly, his gentle heart touched by the fear written on her face, "I have suspected long that some matter did trouble thee. If I have power to lend aid, consider my whitening hair, and hesitate not to confide in me, who am old enough to enjoy the blessing of being called father by thee."

Elinor looked into the benevolent countenance.

"Fear not," he continued in a persuasive voice, "if I can counsel thee, thy wish for help is granted ere 'tis asked."

She raised her head and met a look of gentle sympathy long unknown to her, and for which her poor heart so fondly yearned. The tears sprang to her eyes and her self control, that which the brutality of Winter could not break down, gave way. She turned toward him like a poor tired bird after battling with a storm; her weakness could not endure longer to see protection neath the leaf and branches of his goodness and not avail herself of it.

In a moment more the words had passed her lips,—all that she had overheard, the words uttered by Fawkes, and the fear and anguish which since had haunted her.

"Is there naught I can do?" she cried. "O God! when did I ever commit a sin worthy of the punishment?" She raised her eyes to Garnet. "Even thou art pale to the lips from the hideousness of the thing."

Through the girl's confession, Garnet's attitude remained unchanged. At her first words he started, but with an effort controlled himself. The sudden revelation that their plans were known by one outside those who composed the little band consecrated to the holy cause, filled him with a terror which, at first, reason was unable to check. But as she proceeded, the quick mind of the priest perceived that the girl's one thought was, not to save the King, nor to defeat their hopes, but only to deliver her father from the danger to which he was exposed. The fear gradually passed away, and as Elinor ceased speaking, the strongest feeling in the prelate's mind was one of sympathy for her who wept before him.

"Is there naught," Garnet inquired, mildly, when the girl had finished, "that thou can'st see to justify thy father's act, and by that justification bring to thee consolation? Think, even though he were marked to die, more honor belongs to him in this, than to live to old age in idleness and inactivity. Dwell upon thy love for him, then meditate on his love for the Church."

"Nay," she answered, "my knee doth bend before the altar with as great a reverence as any who do honor to the Host, and were my father to fall in open conflict I would not grudge his life given to a noble cause. But this act is not loyalty to God, for, did He not decree, 'Thou shalt not kill?' 'Tis naught but murder; and if my father fall, he will not meet death as a martyr, but as a common assassin."

Garnet was silent; the girl's words sounded strangely to him. Not wishing to reveal his identity he determined to avoid further argument, fearing suspicions might be raised in Elinor's mind which would only make matters worse. What course to pursue he did not know. As far as circumstances permitted, he would help her, but how to effect this was beyond his present comprehension.

"I have not told thee in vain? Thou wilt aid me?" she inquired.

"My child, I must have time to meditate," answered the Jesuit. "I cannot give thee advice upon such a weighty matter without due deliberation; but," he added hastily, "all is safe for a time at least; thy father is in France."

"I pray God," exclaimed the girl, "that I shall not have reason to regret opening my heart unto thee. Nay, thou couldst not be so cruel as to make known what I have told. Swear," she cried in sudden fear, noting a strange expression on the other's face, "swear thou wilt keep secret all I have revealed."

"Alarm not thyself," replied the prelate; "what thou hast uttered is as safe as if 'twere said under the seal of the confessional. Know further, thou hast told thy trouble to one who will ever cherish the confidence, even if his help avail thee little. But," added he, tenderly—in the sincerity of his heart forgetting the sword which hung at his side—"may the peace of Him whose hand was ready to turn the water into wine, or raise the widow's son, descend and give thee relief."

"Thou speakest like a priest," she said.

Garnet started, but quickly replied, "Never could a priest grant thee absolution with a gladder heart, than I would release thee from this trouble, were it in my power, and were it the will of God that I should do so."

"And dost think it is God's will that I suffer thus?"

"Perchance, yes," said he, in a thoughtful voice, as if communing with himself, "and it may be His decree that many more do groan with thee. Be not regretful thou has told thy sorrow, for even to confide a grief is to make it lighter."

"Nay, I do not regret, I think there is little else left me but to endure; would that I were dead and beyond the touch of sorrow," she added, with a hopeless sigh.

"Thou shouldst not wish thyself dead, for to do so is to be unreconciled to the will of God. If this poor hand doth fail to bring comfort, my prayers shall ever be for strength that thou mayst bear with fortitude all which the wisdom of heaven deems just to send. Try to look upon thy grief as a tribute God demands to work out some mighty project of His own."

"I will try," the girl said, a sad smile coming into her face. "Think not I am ungrateful for thy words of comfort."

"And now, my daughter, will I wish thee the blessing of sweet sleep, for 'tis late; I will see thee again soon."

"Thou art very good," she replied simply, "thou, the only one remaining—" her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes; suddenly she threw her arms about him, and between the sobs which shook her frame, exclaimed, hiding her face upon his shoulder, "all that is left me now."

Garnet regarded the slight figure clinging to him: "Oh God!" he thought, "Is it Thy will that such as these must suffer?" He raised his arm as if to encircle her, but let it drop by his side.

"Come, my child," he said after a moment, putting her gently from him, "thy tears well nigh unman me; I would it were in my power to give thee consolation, but help must come from higher hands than mine."

As he reached the threshold he turned and beheld a picture which haunted him many a day, and for an instant raised within his holy mind a doubt of the justice of such grief. As she stood, the imprint of deep sorrow was on the fair young face—a sorrow the young should never know. One arm was raised as though in mute appeal to him not to forsake her in this misery. A look, and he closed the door, passing out into the night.

The effect produced upon Garnet by the trouble he had just witnessed was complex. Never doubting the justice of the cause he espoused, still, his quiet nature could not hide from itself a feeling of pity that one so good and innocent should be called upon to suffer equally with those whose unholy hands were raised to snatch the cross from off the altar of his fathers.

"Truly," he muttered, as he proceeded on his way—pressing a hand to his breast that he might feel the crucifix resting there—"it hath been resolved by higher authority than my weak will that this thing must be done. And, Henry Garnet, who art thou to question? Still," he added, sadly shaking his head, the memory of a tear-stained face passing before him, "it is a pity; but for every tear that falls from thy gentle eyes a soul will be redeemed."

He continued on his way in silence. As he approached the more densely populated districts of the city, an almost unconscious movement of the hand brought the fold of his mantle over his shoulder, so that it hid the lower portion of his face. The tall figure of Garnet was one which could not fail to attract attention, and many a passerby turned to see who the cavalier might be. This did not escape the eye of the prelate, and evidently for the sake of being unnoticed, he turned into a less frequented thoroughfare, and proceeded by a circuitous route to gain the hostelry wherein he resided. The way brought him through a portion of the city composed of narrow intersecting streets and alleys, faced by poor and worn out hovels. A few old warehouses here and there marked the spots where in times gone by fine goods had been stored. As they stood with broken windows and open doors sighing and creaking in the wind, they appeared like living creatures who had fallen from conditions of plenty, and were now, in their hunger, bemoaning the loss of the abundance which once had filled them.

In front of one of these buildings Garnet paused for a moment to more closely examine the pile, and being deeply absorbed in his task of inspection, was not aware of the glimmer of a lantern which came bobbing toward him along the main road. The first intimations that any one but himself stood upon the street were a sudden flash of light in his face, a heavy hand falling upon his shoulder, and a gruff voice exclaiming:

"Henry Garnet, in the name of the King I arrest thee!"

The priest started, and with rapid motion drew his cloak about him, at the same time springing upon the step of the building. The man lowered the light and by its reflection the Jesuit could see that he wore the uniform of the King's guard.

"Come," continued the soldier, drawing his sword, "submission better suits thee as a priest, than does resistance."

The blow had fallen so quickly, so unexpectedly, that for an instant Garnet stood as one struck dumb, unable either to reply or form a plan of action. However, in a moment his alert mind grasped the situation. He had been recognized, that was evident, but his arrest was simply for disobeying the edict by which he, as well as all his order, were banished from the kingdom. The penalty following the violation of this decree, at its worst, would simply mean imprisonment in the Tower. But what, he asked himself, would be the consequence of it? While far from being an egotist, the Jesuit knew that he alone was the thinking power of that cause which to him was dearer than life. And now, when plans were fast maturing, the corn ripening in the field, awaiting but the hand of the reapers, he was placed in sudden danger which threatened to frustrate all their hopes. These thoughts flashed through his mind with the rapidity of lightning as he confronted the man standing at the foot of the steps. Escape he must,—but how?

"Come, Henry Garnet," the man repeated, ascending the steps, lantern in one hand, a sword in the other. "Thou art my prisoner, and in the name of his most gracious Majesty, James I., I arrest thee!"

A bold rush now would be of no avail, for the man stood with the point of his rapier close to the prelate's breast, almost touching his doublet; furthermore Garnet's sword was in its scabbard, and at the first attempt to draw it, he, in all probability, would be run through the body. Was there no alternative but to yield? A gust of wind caused the door at his back to creak. In an instant the Jesuit had sprung for the portal, but the soldier, perceiving his purpose, lunged with his weapon, and so true was the aim, that the prelate's cloak was pinned fast to the wooden frame. An instant he was held there, but the clasp of the mantle giving way released its wearer, and Garnet stood in the dark entry, the door shut, and his foot set firmly against it. The move had been none too quick, for the soldier hurled himself upon the closed portal, which caused the old boards to groan, but they did not yield; the only result of the man's efforts were, that the lantern flew from his grasp, rolling down the steps into the street. The priest heard him descend to recover the light, and relinquishing his hold upon the door, groped his way through the darkness, hoping to elude his pursuer in the building. His hand came in contact with the baluster, and he quickly ascended the rickety stairs. By this time, the guard had relighted his lantern and was peering cautiously into the hall, evidently fearing a sword thrust from out the darkness. In this instant's hesitation, Garnet gained the loft above. Here the obscurity was less intense, for the waning moon shining through a broken window into a room at his left, enabled him to see his way more distinctly. There was little time for choice of direction, for even now the soldier had commenced to ascend, and Garnet, not venturing to grope further in the gloom, turned toward the ray of light, and passed quickly into the room, pressed himself against the wall and waited. The priest could see his pursuer holding the lantern above his head, as he ascended the stairs, looking carefully about the while. The soldier approached the chamber in which the Jesuit lay hid, peered in at the door, and as if not satisfied with this cursory examination entered. At last the man seemed satisfied, and with a muttered curse was about to leave the apartment, when a fatal turn of the lantern swept one of its rays full upon the Jesuit.

"Ah! there thou art, my sly fox!" cried the soldier, springing, sword in hand, at Garnet; another instant would have seen the priest pinned fast to the wall, had not the man's foot in some way become entangled in the mantle hanging upon his arm, throwing him headlong with great clatter of steel to the floor.

In a moment Garnet was upon him, both hands at the soldier's throat, the long fingers pressing firmly the windpipe; one more strong clasp and the priest released his hold, seized the other's sword, which had fallen to the floor, and stood with its point upon the man's breast.

"Swear by the God thou fearest, and upon thine honor, that thou wilt remain in this room until I leave the house! Swear it!" the priest repeated, "ere I run thee through!"

No answer followed his command.

"Come. Swear it!" he repeated, pressing the rapier firmly against the other's chest. The ominous silence fell upon the priest as strange. He stooped to look into the face. The light was dim, and still lower he bent. Suddenly the sword dropped from his hand, for the Jesuit saw by the bulging eyes which stared into his that he had demanded an oath from a corpse. Those long white fingers had pressed more firmly than they knew; the man's windpipe was crushed like paper.

"My God!" the Jesuit whispered, kneeling beside the prostrate form, horror of the deed falling upon him. "Of what have I been guilty? This man's blood upon my head?" Terror-stricken, he looked about the room. Again his eyes returned to the thing lying beside him. Was that a movement of the distorted face? He gazed upon it in horrible fascination. Slowly the lips of the dead man parted, the jaw dropped, and it seemed as though a hideous smile lay upon the distorted visage.

"Ah!" cried Garnet, springing to his feet, "Even in death thou art the victor, for I am shackled to thee. Never in this world can I escape the recollection of thy countenance!"

The priest fell upon his knees, and raised his hands:

"God help me and forgive me for this deed!" he cried. "If I have sinned, 'twas not to save this worthless life of mine; not that I deemed it sweet to live, but that I might survive to consecrate or yield that life in the furtherance of Thy holy work!"

He paused a moment in silent prayer, then arose, and taking a crucifix from his doublet, knelt by the figure on the floor and pressed the symbol to the dead lips.

"Nay," said he, as he stood regarding the man, "I did not wish thy death, and would gladly yield my life to see thee breathe again, but 'twas ordained thou shouldst go first. And who next?" he added, raising the cross and gazing upon it—"Mayhap he doth wear a crown."



CHAPTER XVI.

MONTEAGLE AND SALISBURY.

Four months passed; months of impatience to the conspirators who awaited with eagerness the hour to strike against the government. Winter and Fawkes had returned from France, their mission in part accomplished, as they had obtained from certain of the Catholic nobility promises of assistance in the way of men and money, did the doors of England open to receive them. The plot to strike at the heart of the ruling powers was slowly maturing; Fawkes, now the leading spirit, worked diligently both with brain and hands to perfect the plan decided upon by Winter, Catesby and the others. Secure in a feeling of strength, the King had little thought that Fate was slowly winding about him and his ministers a shroud which prompt action alone could cast off.

Toward the close of a sultry midsummer day, Lord Cecil, Earl of Salisbury and Prime Minister of England, after holding audience with the King, returned to his dwelling, glad to cast aside his decorations and forget during a few hours the weighty affairs of State. He was scarcely seated, with a glass of wine in hand, when my Lord of Monteagle was announced as waiting in the ante-chamber. 'Twas no strange thing for this nobleman to seek the Minister at his home, for between them there was a warm friendship, and it pleased Cecil to receive the other at any time he chose to visit him. He therefore ordered that Monteagle should be at once conducted to his apartment, and a second glass of wine prepared.

As the peer entered, the keen eyes of his host noted that his bearing betokened a mind ill at ease.

"Faith!" said he, rising from his seat and extending his hand, "thou bearest a most sour visage, my lord. Hath ridden in the sun, or did thy cook forget his occupation and serve thee an ill-prepared repast?"

Monteagle smiled faintly. "Nay," said he, "'tis my mind which is somewhat disturbed."

"Then sit thee down," cried Cecil cheerily, "and unburden thyself to me of all save affairs of State; of them am I exceeding weary, for the King hath a new hobby, a tax on beets and onions, in the discussion of which the afternoon has been consumed."

"Then his Majesty devised another way——" began Monteagle.

Salisbury raised his hand. "'Tis treason," said he in feigned displeasure; "wouldst have us in the Tower, good Monteagle, that thou speak so lightly of James' statesmanship?" Then changing his jesting tone to one of gravity: "But tell me, what troubles thee? Hath the air of France failed to restore the spirits of thy son, Effingston? He hath not returned?"

"He is still in Paris," replied the other, touching his lips to the glass which had been proffered him, "I this day received a letter in which he speaks encouragingly of his health, and announces his return within the month. Thy mind is easy, my lord?"

"And why not?" demanded the Prime Minister, holding aloft his glass that he might watch the reflection of the sun's rays upon the wine. "England is at peace, the King seated firm upon his throne, and the Ship of State rides on an even keel. Hast dreamed of treason, my Lord Monteagle?"

"Perchance not treason," replied his companion, drawing his chair nearer, "but—certain things my son hath written, added to others coming under my own observation, have caused me some uneasiness—a shadowy suspicion, as it were, that an ill plan is brewing against the King's authority."

"Tut!" cried Salisbury. "'Tis a fit of indigestion, about which thou hadst best consult thy doctor. Yet, what be these suspicions?"

"Thou knowest," replied Monteagle, sinking his voice so that it scarce reached the other's ear, "there are certain Catholics among the nobles who chafe grievously under the exactions of laws passed by Parliament and approved by James."

Salisbury shrugged his shoulders. "That is beyond peradventure," said he, "but the laws will stand."

"Of that I would speak nothing," replied Monteagle, "being neither King nor Parliament, but it hath been hinted that perchance the wind of discontent may fan into life a flame of——"

"Thou hast relatives among the Catholics," interrupted Cecil, looking keenly at the other, "hast become a confidant?"

Monteagle shook his head. "Nay," said he, "nor do I desire to mix in affairs concerning my former faith. Yet, I have knowledge of certain meetings which have taken place composed of sundry persons opposed to the policy of James."

"The dogs cut by the lash herd together in their discomfiture," replied Cecil, "yet they fear to bite the hand which stung them."

Monteagle frowned, for the words of the Prime Minister were not to his liking.

"There is more," said he; "certain of those have been seen in France."

"'Tis a most Catholic country," replied Salisbury, "and, perhaps, wishing to worship unmolested before their altars, some have gone thither for their religion's sake."

"My lord!" cried Monteagle, perceiving the Minister was in a mood for jesting, "hast thou had no fear that some hidden danger might lurk beneath the calm exterior of the peace which covers England? Do not smile, but hear me. Thou knowest the Viscount Effingston is in France, at the Court of Henry, and hath mingled much with some who are close to the throne. Perhaps it may not have reached thine ears that some months back a bloodless duel was fought between him and one Sir Thomas Winter, a zealous Catholic and enemy to the King."

"Ah!" broke in Salisbury, "thy speech grows interesting; and what brought about this duel?"

"'Twas an insult cast upon me by this Winter," replied Monteagle. "Effingston chancing to hear, resented it, and an exchange of sword thrusts followed; but that is past. As I told thee this morning I received a letter from Paris in which the Viscount says he hath met this Winter and another, a soldier of the commoners, and——"

"A second duel hath followed?" interrupted the Minister.

"Not so," replied the other, "but being suspicious of the fellows, my son did set a spy upon them, feeling sure that no honest errand took them into France."

"And what did he discover?" asked Salisbury.

"That Winter and his companion sought many times audiences with certain high churchmen known to be enemies of England. Once, he chanced to meet them upon the street, when Winter flushed a scarlet and hastily passed. After this he learned that two Englishmen, one a soldier who had served the King of Spain, gained the ear of certain prelates and noblemen; that their conferences had been conducted with much secrecy, and having finished, the men left Paris in the night, taking poste for Calais."

"And what then?" asked Salisbury, "did thy son learn anything concerning those secret conferences?"

"No way was open to him," answered Monteagle, "but he thought it best to lay the matter before me; the more so that Winter and the other have returned to London."

The Prime Minister pondered for a moment. "Faith! my lord!" said he, "thy zeal for the welfare of the State is most commendable, and the King shall know of it, but thy spirit is overwrought with idle fear. What if certain Catholics in England have sought audience with those of their faith in Paris? Have we then fear of France? My word upon it, good Monteagle, that calm thought will quell thy doubts. Of this Thomas Winter I know something; a reminder of the luckless Essex, a gentleman whose zeal doth warp his reason, and who, should he presume too far, will feel the axe, I warrant. Thou sayest he is again in England; perchance he builds a castle which the sight of a line of soldiers will scatter to the winds. Again I thank thee for thy counsel, my lord, nor will I neglect such matters as pertain to the safety of the King. If it come to thee, that these dissatisfied Catholics grow too bold in speech, for I fear not other signs of treason, lay it before me, that I may stop their tongues, ere evil thoughts be planted in the minds of them who cry 'amen' to any wind of speech delivered in the market place."

Monteagle arose, for he perceived 'twas useless to speak further of ill-defined plots and perchance groundless fears of treason against the King.

"I but considered it my duty as an English gentleman to look to the welfare of——" he began.

"Thou hast my confidence," interrupted Salisbury, "and though I seem to treat lightly thy suspicions they will be most carefully heeded should occasion arise. There be certain chambers in the Tower, where those too zealous in their faith may pass the time in prayer, thanking God the King is merciful, and stays the axe."

Monteagle bowed and left the room. "It may be," he muttered, "that my mind doth dwell too much upon this matter, but I know Sir Thomas Winter well, and there be certain of the Jesuits yet in England."



CHAPTER XVII.

SOWING THE WIND.

Late of an evening near to Michaelmas, three men applied for admission at the door of a house close to the edge of the Thames, and which, by reason of its surroundings, assured security from observation to those who might choose to abide therein. Knocking upon the panel with the hilt of a heavy rapier which he had drawn from its scabbard, the shorter of the trio listened impatiently for the sounds which would precede the drawing of the bolts within. His companions, who were in the shadow of a neighboring wall, glanced about apprehensively.

"'Tis an ill-favored place, Sir Thomas," whispered one, grasping tighter the hilt of his sword as though the touch of the steel might calm in a measure his disquietude. "Scarce is it to my liking that friend Guido hath chosen so——"

His companion laughed uneasily. "He hath a keen wit," replied he, "and much precaution is necessary that none suspect at the eleventh hour. As thou seest, good Percy, 'tis a most peaceful region, with few abroad and no signs of the authorities."

"Peaceful, indeed," replied Percy, casting his eyes down the poorly lighted and narrow street through which he had come; "so is a charnel-house, yet one would scarce——"

A second rap upon the door, delivered with increased force, interrupted the whispered conversation.

"Within!" growled Fawkes, bending so that his lips were on a level with the keyhole. "Art sleeping, Master Keyes, or——"

The shuffling of feet answered, and a voice nearly inarticulate from drowsiness demanded in no gentle tones who sought admittance to an honest dwelling at so unseasonable an hour.

Upon Fawkes replying, the bolt was withdrawn, the door opened a few inches and the face of Master Keyes appeared in the aperture. The soldier of fortune motioned to his companions who quickly joined him.

"Good Robert, here, is a most cunning rogue," said he half laughingly, "having feigned sleep——"

The warden of the door forced a sneering smile. "Faith!" said he, making way that the others might enter, "'twas such feigning as may ever come to me when I would forget my troubles, and there be in my purse no silver to purchase that which is opposed to conscience. What wouldst thou, Guido Fawkes? that I sit upright in a corner from eventide till morn that thou be not kept waiting before the door? Ill was the day when, listening to thy words, I undertook this errand; thou art fain to wish that I may be blown to the devil by thy six and thirty barrels of——"

Fawkes hastily laid his open palm across the mouth of the irate man. "What now?" growled he gruffly, "that thou must cry aloud the contents of thy cellar? Hast not been paid?"

"Aye," grumbled the man, drawing back, "for sitting over hell! May those selfsame Spanish hirelings to whom thy powder goeth, be blown to their master with scant courtesy!"

Winter whispered in Percy's ear: "A pretty trick, good Percy, yet what more natural than, wishing to turn a penny by furnishing powder to the Dons, brave Guido should act with much secrecy, so that it be not seized by the authorities?"

Already they were in the house, and the door was securely fastened. Fawkes laid aside some of his cautiousness.

"Friend Robert is a faithful man," said he, turning to his companions and speaking with much significance; "therefore have I entered into an agreement with him, that I, being under contract to the Spanish ambassador to convey certain barrels of gunpowder into Flanders, he should guard them till the time be ripe for loading into such vessels as will carry them to the ship which I have hired."

"Then," replied Winter, taking from his wallet a gold piece and tendering it to Keyes, "he will accept this token which, I warrant, will be increased by others of its kind if his diligence pleaseth thee."

On seeing the gold the man's ill temper vanished. "Good gentlemen," cried he, seizing eagerly the coin, "I spoke but hastily."

"That we know," said Winter, "and, perchance we, had we been so rudely awakened, would have done as thou didst. Hath any disturbed thee during thy guardianship?"

"None, save a few drunken braggarts who found their way hither, and would have battered in the door. Did any come whose wits were sharper than their caution, I would have——"

"What?" asked Fawkes pointedly, as the speaker hesitated.

"Faith!" replied Keyes, "being a poor man, and a bag of gold pieces forthcoming upon the safe loading of this devil's face powder onto the Spanish vessel, 'twould be but just, that did any seek to cheat me of it—well, the river tells no tales; what think ye, gentlemen?"

Percy shuddered; Winter pressed his hand. "Nay, good Percy," he whispered, "'tis scarce like to happen, yet even so, we would be but instruments in the hand of God."

During this conversation Fawkes, who seemed to be familiar with the house, had led his companions into a small apartment whose window overlooked the river which, washing against the stone foundation of the dwelling, offered a safe retreat did any, bent upon trouble making, force the street door.

Winter and Percy glanced about them. The place was bare save for a rude cot, a shaky table upon which flickered an iron-bound lantern, and a small chest that, did occasion require, could be placed against the narrow door. At a sign from Fawkes, Keyes drew aside the bed, disclosing in the floor the outlines of a trap door, which covered an opening to the cellar beneath. Stooping, he raised the heavy cover, revealing the top rounds of a rude ladder leading into the blackness below.

"'Tis there!" said Fawkes shortly, "wouldst see it, gentlemen?"

Percy drew back, when Keyes, misunderstanding his hesitancy, caught the lantern from the table.

"I will go down," said he, "and thou mayst safely follow; the stuff be well housed, tight as a drum, and, as thou seest, the lantern scattereth no fire."

"But will not the dampness of the place destroy its usefulness?" asked Winter.

"There is little fear," replied Fawkes, "although it lieth below the surface of the river; the cellar is hewn from the rock, and dry as a tinder-box. Lead the way, good Robert, take heed with thy light."

With much cautiousness the two men followed Fawkes and his guide down the ladder to the floor ten feet below. Reaching it, Keyes held up the lantern so that its feeble rays penetrated the darkness. Piled against the walls of the subterranean chamber, Winter and Percy discerned irregular dark objects rising to the height of their heads.

"'Tis the wind which will free England of the pestilence," said Fawkes grimly; then catching the quick glance of Winter, which reminded him of the presence of Master Keyes, added: "Which sown in Flanders will bring forth a whirlwind against those who serve not God after the manner of the righteous."

"A goodly amount of the grains," said Percy, placing his foot again upon a round of the ladder; "and how much saidst thou, good Master Keyes?"

"As Fawkes hath told me, some six and thirty barrels," replied the watchman; "enough, methinks, to send all London up to the stars."

"And the King, also," whispered Winter in Fawkes' ear, and added, "let us to the room above. My stomach hath small liking for thy cellars."

Percy was already half way up the ladder, and the others quickly followed. To the soldier of fortune and to Master Keyes, 'twas of little moment that they had stood in the presence of such an engine of destruction, which, if properly applied, would shake to its foundation the strongest structure in Europe. But in Winter and Percy, especially the latter, the presence of the gunpowder, thoughts of the purpose for which it was to be used, and the lives which must be sacrificed, overcame for the moment their fanatical zeal, and they withdrew with a feeling akin to horror. 'Twas truly the seed of death; and in sowing the wind might they not, themselves, reap the whirlwind?

A short time in the upper chamber restored their calmness, and they no longer seemed such fearful things, those grim barrels of harmless looking black grains, which might lie harmless for centuries, as they had seen them, or, at the touch of a single tiny spark, shake London as by an earthquake, vacate a royal throne, and exterminate in an instant the proudest government in Europe. Percy, of more gentle disposition than his companion, gazed into the face of Guido Fawkes with a feeling akin to awe. His was the brain which had suggested this terrific method for the destruction of the King and Parliament; his the voice that had pronounced the words which laid bare the plan to Catesby, Winter and the others. If Fawkes had never come from Spain, perhaps——, but the subject of his gloomy thoughts was speaking in reply to a question put by Sir Thomas.

"Thou hast noted," said he, "that this dwelling lieth close to the river; so, 'twill be no great matter to remove the barrels from the cellar to the deck of a boat lashed beneath the window, and, if a dark night be chosen for the work, none, I warrant, will perceive the matter. What sayest thou, friend Robert?"

"That there is much of wisdom in thy speech," replied the other; "and once upon the boat, the channel to the sea, where will lie thy Spanish galley, is open. When, thinkest thou, the powder will be moved?"

"I know not," replied Fawkes, sharply,—"in due time——" Then, turning to his companions: "Gentlemen, having seen that which lies below, what may be your pleasure?"

"To return quickly," replied Percy, relieved at the thought of escaping from such an ill-favored locality.

Keyes chuckled. "Thou art in haste to quit my presence, and my pretty devil's powder, good gentlemen," said he; "didst sleep so near as we, perchance you would come to love it as Master Fawkes and I do. One spark from this weak lantern, and——"

"Come!" cried Percy, drawing his arm through that of Winter,—"we are satisfied; what need to tarry longer?"

In the street once more they, with Fawkes leading, hastened to gain a more populous section of the city. 'Twas to Winter's house they went, where Catesby was waiting impatiently. He, with Fawkes, had visited the house by the river on the night previous, therefore he fell into their discussion with good knowledge of the subject in hand.

"Thou shouldst have been a general," said he to Fawkes; "it scarce comes to me how so goodly a quantity of powder could be stored in yonder place without detection."

"'Twas no great matter," replied Fawkes, setting down the wineglass Winter had handed him, "a little here, a trifle there, requiring some weeks in the gathering; but now, as thou hast seen, there is enough."

Winter laughed. "Faith!" said he, "I would fain not have thee for mine enemy, friend Guido; else, some fine night, while I dreamed not that danger threatened, my good dwelling would come to grief."

Fawkes smiled grimly. "Not so," said he; "if thou wert an enemy, and I had sworn to kill thee, 'twould be by other means,"—touching the hilt of his sword. "What thou hast seen is reserved for kings and parliaments."

"The powder is well stored," broke in Catesby,—"what next?"

"That hath been attended to," replied Percy. "As thou knowest, certain events must transpire ere Master Keyes gives up his guardianship. To me has fallen the duty of looking into the matter. The cellar of the Parliament House must be reached ere further effect can come from our planning."

"What hast thou decided?" asked Winter.

"Upon a simple solution of the matter," replied the Gentleman-Pensioner. "Foreseeing our course, I have made an agreement with one Henry Ferrers for the hiring of a dwelling close to the House of Parliament. The documents are already signed and sealed. As in many houses, the cellar extends some feet below the surface of the street and, next it, lies the foundation wall of the House."

"Then," cried Catesby, "we will play the mole; is it not so, good Percy?"

"Thou hast said it," replied the other; "to reach the cellar beneath the House of Lords we must pierce through the foundation. 'Tis of great thickness and the task will not be easy."

"I am little used to delving," growled Fawkes, "but there is no other way."

"And Garnet?" inquired Catesby.

"Garnet hath gone from London," said Percy, "nor will he return until the fuse has reached the powder. He is now at Coughton House to await such time as we shall summon him to join our forces."

"And them hast all in readiness?" asked Winter.

"In the house of Henry Ferrers are tools for digging—picks, hammers and the like," replied Percy.

"And in another place lie six and thirty kegs of trusty powder," added Catesby; "the instruments are at hand." Then rising: "Come, gentlemen! our conference is ended; to-morrow we work, not talk."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CELLAR.

The house of Master Ferrers stood on the narrow strip of land between the House of Lords and the river Thames. The wall of the dwelling being adjacent to that which guarded the east side of the Parliament House, 'twas not so difficult a matter for one bent upon gaining secret entrance to the latter, to tunnel through it. Being of soft bricks it would afford but a slight obstacle to determined men. To penetrate the official structure was a harder undertaking, the thickness thereof being some nine feet, and the masonry of flinty stone, firmly cemented, and hardened into a compact mass by the lapse of years. But, having once pierced through the two walls, the first of brick, the other of stone, one would find himself in a chamber of some extent, lying directly beneath the assembling place of the peers, and the throne from which the King witnessed the convening of his Parliament.

Though, in fact, a cellar to the main building, the room was upon a level with the street without, the walls being of "stout stones" and the ceiling formed by beams upon which rested the flooring of the House of Lords. 'Twas in this room the conspirators proposed to place the six and thirty barrels of gunpowder, and—Parliament being in session—to apply a spark to the slumbering power by which those who occupied the room above would be blown heavenward with such scant ceremony that none among them should have time to cry: "Good Lord, have mercy upon us! Amen!"

In selecting the house against the east wall of the Peer's meeting place, Percy had acted with some wisdom. The Thames was the silent highway of London, and did a boat stop beside the river entrance of the dwelling, none would be likely to take any note thereof, nor to think it matter of suspicion for one who occupied the place to use the water as means of conveying such commodities as he chose to his storeroom or cellar. In this manner the powder stored under the guardianship of Master Keyes was removed by night to the second storage place, that it might be in readiness when the time arrived for placing it beneath the floor of Parliament. Many persons dwelt in the neighborhood; in the vicinity were clustered the houses of the Keeper of the Wardrobe, auditors and tellers of the Exchequer, and many other officials of the government, any of whom might notice the barge lying close at the edge of the garden on the river front, and the men carrying from it to the house divers packages, but it was not probable that they would. None, unless having business with Master Percy, would approach the door, nor enter the garden, much less question the carriers concerning that which they removed so carefully.

It was at the end of the tenth day after the visit of Percy and Sir Thomas to Master Keyes that the six and thirty barrels—twenty-four hundred pounds—of powder were safely stored in the building next the Parliament House.

But ere this was accomplished, those who had undertaken the digging of the tunnel began their work. Under cover of the darkness, Catesby, Wright, Percy, Winter and Fawkes, entered the house leased by the Gentleman-Pensioner, and being provided with a goodly quantity of baked meats and other necessaries, that nothing should arise to call them abroad, they began their work upon the brick wall beyond which lay the masonry proper of the House.

Of the five, four were gentlemen of blood, to whom the handling of pick and bar came not so readily. To Fawkes, skilled through long service in foreign lands, where the undermining of walls and fortifications was a common occupation, it fell to direct the work, although in actual digging he took small part, it having been agreed that he should serve as watchman, warn the others did any approach the garden, or danger arise from sounds in the cellar reaching the ears of those whose curiosity might bring unwelcome investigation as to so strange a proceeding. Crowded as they were in the narrow space, the four conspirators, with doublets cast aside and limbs weary from their unusual occupation, plied drill and crowbar, enlivening their toil by discourse upon the subject of the undertaking, and stopping ever and anon to refresh themselves with ale, or wine.

"Faith!" said Sir Thomas, looking woefully upon his begrimed hands and vestment, "'tis a sorry thing to play the mole, when a sword thrust delivered from behind a curtain, or the stroke of a poniard, would as well free us of these tyrants."

"'Twere perchance easier," replied Percy, driving his drill through the last layer of bricks which stood between them and the second wall. "I, for one, would choose the Lord to give me work under an open sky, where there be less dust to blind the eyes and stifle the breath."

Catesby laughed harshly. "Could Garnet hear thee," said he, "a discourse of patience would soon be forthcoming. To your work, gentlemen; we have already pierced one wall."

An exclamation from Wright interrupted them.

"By the wounds," he growled, throwing down his crowbar with much show of temper, "one wall, indeed; a paper covering compared with this," and taking the bar again drove its point with great force against the one now exposed, belonging to the House.

The iron rebounded from the solid masonry as though driven against a sheet of steel, for the flinty stone turned it easily, and only a shower of sparks answered the blow.

"What hast thou there?" asked Winter.

"The gate of hell," retorted Wright, kicking the bar with his foot, "nine feet of it, by Master Percy's computation, and, I warrant, as many years will be required to see the further side. Try it, good Catesby, 'tis a nut a giant could scarce crack, though he wield a battering ram."

Taking up a lantern which stood by the wall, Catesby examined the masonry with great carefulness.

"Thou shouldst have struck the mortar," said he, tapping the cement between the blocks of stone with the point of his drill, "wouldst tear away the rock itself?"

For some moments he worked diligently, streaming with perspiration and his loud breathing filling the narrow place. A hole scarce three inches deep rewarded his exertions.

"'Tis well reasoned," growled he at length, "here is a riddle for Master Fawkes; wilt summon him, friend Percy?"

Glad for an excuse to leave for a moment the ill-savored cellar, Percy hastened on his errand, and Fawkes presently entered, looking keenly about.

"What now, gentlemen?" said he, "hast made an opening?"

"That have we not, save through this wall of brick," replied Catesby, "methinks thy gunpowder could scarce open a further way, friend Guido. Look thou at yon barrier of stone."

Taking the lantern, Fawkes followed the suggestion. "'Tis, in truth, most strongly put together," said he at length, "but with due patience and diligence this also may be overcome. Give me a drill."

Having received one from the hand of Winter he attacked the masonry, striking here, picking there, until, having loosened a goodly portion of cement, he caught up a heavy crowbar, and inserting its point into the narrow opening, bore down upon the iron with all his strength and the block of stone, freed from its fastening, was detached and fell with a dull crash upon the floor at his feet.

The soldier of fortune wiped his brow. "'Tis of the smallest," said he, "but the others will give way in turn. Thou must first be sure that the mortar is removed, when, using sufficient force, the rocks will loosen, thus making the hole larger."

"There be too few of us," said Winter. "I think some word should be sent to my brother Robert, that he join us in this business, and also Master Keyes, who being a man of much resource, and, perchance, skilled in such labor as this, may aid us much."

"Can he be trusted in so dangerous a venture?" asked Wright. "Of thy brother Robert there is no fear, but what of this Master Keyes?"

"Friend Guido will answer for his loyalty," replied Winter; "the man is reliable, though his zeal turneth to the securing of money. Already have I examined him, and found that within his mind lay some suspicion as to our object in collecting such a quantity of powder. For recompense he will dig most industriously, and promise of reward when our mission is accomplished will make him dumb. Thou hast my word upon it."

"Then," said Catesby, "let him be summoned hither, and thy brother also; much labor lies before us; seven men can scarce accomplish it, and we are now but five."

It was agreed that on the following night Fawkes should bring Keyes and Robert Winter to the cellar, when, with a greater number to labor, the work of forcing a passage through the wall could be accomplished more rapidly. In the meantime, being excessively wearied, the conspirators left the cellar and sought repose.

* * * * *

Two weeks passed. The excavation in the wall of the Parliament House had increased day by day, until a hole some five or six feet in length, large enough to admit the body of a man, was bored through the solid masonry. With the assistance of the two additional members to their little party the conspirators worked with renewed energy. Filled with enthusiasm they had little sense of fatigue, and plied pick and drill vigorously that they might gain entrance to the room beneath the lord's chamber before the convening of Parliament, which, as Percy learned, was to take place on the fifth of November. Confident that their work was appointed by God, those men of gentle blood curbed their impatience, though laborious and slow was the task, and every muscle and bone ached when the tools were laid aside. For a time the disposal of the earth and rock taken from the tunnel puzzled them, but Fawkes with characteristic quickness found a way;—such of the debris as would attract little attention was scattered about the garden; as for the larger rocks and mortar, the river was close at hand, and, as Robert Keyes had said, it told no tales.